


Thaw

by princesskay



Series: Claire/Frank Missing Scenes [10]
Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Episode: s05e13 Chapter 65, F/M, Love/Hate, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 01:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11567688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: “The world will look a lot different tomorrow. A new president, a new war … Life will go on the same for a lot of people, but not for us. We're going to remember this night for the rest of our lives.”“A victory lap? Or a last supper?”The Underwoods meet in a lavish hotel while the world prepares to burn.





	Thaw

The hotel suite is fit for royalty. Situated directly across from the White House and sporting stunning views of the Capitol from every window, the furnishings would have dazzled anyone else. 

But he doesn’t touch the fully stocked minibar. Or the yawning, porcelain invitation of the hot tub. The burnished gold curtains and gilded furniture seem garish in comparison to the functionality of white and pale silver he’s accustomed to. 

Despite the plush, pillow-top mattress and Egyptian cotton sheets, he lies awake, staring at the ceiling for hours. His mind turns in plodding rotations like the methodical, never-ending churn of a water wheel. There’s no end to the torture of thought, and seemingly, no beginning either. 

He can’t trace this thread of disloyalty and distrust back to any one incident. What was the poisoning thought? The one action that breathed life into hatred? 

He’s down on his knees before her, but only time will tell if even this great, disastrous position he’s maneuvered himself into will be enough to close the gap. He’s thrown himself down on the sword; only she, unfaithful and cold as she is, can save him. 

When she finally reaches out, she doesn’t call directly. It’s an unfamiliar voice telling him that she’ll be arriving within the hour. 

He dresses, combs his hair. Gathers his fortitude before the mirror. 

When he hears the knock on the door, he goes without hesitation. This is the moment of truth. Some small voice of doubt lingers in the back of his mind, a niggling irritation that he brushes off. 

_ This is Claire. His Claire. He knows her. _

When he opens the door, she’s flanked on either side by security. 

She holds up a hand. “Stay.” 

Like loyal dogs, they do as she says. 

She marches across the threshold, giving him a faint whiff of perfume. He shuts the door on the blank, stern expression of the Secret Service agents. He hopes the walls are thick. They need utter privacy. 

He follows her into the suite, watching her back keenly. The collar of her coat is flipped up around her jaw, the costume of a King Cobra prepared to strike. 

“I’ve thought long and hard, Francis. Barely slept.” She says. Each word is slow, determined. He can imagine her rehearsing in front of the mirror - just as he had. 

“That’s the job.” He says. 

“I’m going to send in troops. I’ll be announcing it tomorrow night.” 

“I think you’re doing the right thing.” 

Silence stretches between them, and he can tell she’s just as disinterested in conversation about war as he is. Both their hearts are in a different place - and in the muted shadows of evening and unfamiliar surroundings, everything looks different than before. 

“Do you hate it here?” 

“Oh you know I don’t like hotels.” He says, glancing around the suite. “An approximation of home just to remind you you’re not there.” 

He crosses the room to her, giving into the hankering to see her face. 

“Well, we don’t live in a home. We live in a house. Borrowed and temporary.” 

The remark is detached, cold. She’s glacial - and he feels as if he’s standing before a towering mountain, braving the alpine cold and the sharp edges of rock. 

“Something in your eye. A look. It’s changed.” He says. 

She tilts her head, unflinching at the accusation. He hardly meant it as one. It’s an observation, one he’s not entirely sure he’s pleased or disappointed by. 

“We’re the same now, you and I.” She says, a faint smile curling her mouth. 

“How so?” 

“You know how. It’s been a long time since I surprised myself.” 

He nods, thinking of her tear-streaked face in a bathroom mirror in the middle of a military decoration ceremony. Of her twisted expression upon waking from a nightmare about dying children. And finally of her cold indifference -  _ I killed Tom. I killed Tom Yates. He’s dead.  _

“You’ll recover.” He says, “You’re the most powerful woman in the world, Claire. Comfort pales by comparison.” 

She tips her chin in agreement. She turns from him again, away from the conversation and the places it could lead. 

“I’ll announce it during the speech, after the troops. A full and unconditional pardon from Francis Underwood and any crimes he might have committed against the United States while president.” 

“I’m glad to hear that.” He says. 

But that small voice in the back of his mind doesn’t dissipate despite physical evidence of her honesty. 

“I was never in doubt. I just needed to think about how.” 

He follows her, gaze pinned to her profile. Her presence ushers in a sense of hollowness in his chest, the dull bass of his heartbeat loud against the empty cavity behind his ribs. Unsustainable. He hates it here now more than ever. 

“How long does this arrangement last?” He asks. 

“For the time being.” 

She turns to face him, uncertainty in her eyes for the first time during the conversation. She draws in a breath, and he can see her chest shudder, matching his own. 

“How did we get here, Francis?” 

“Oh, let it go. It’s done.” He says. 

No use crying over spilled milk, that’s what his mother used to say. And for a woman who used that turn of phrase quite often, she’d spent her days crying in bed more times than he could count on both hands. 

He won’t be so disillusioned by reality, no matter how badly it hurts. 

“Oh, and one word of advice. Whomever Usher offers up to you as Vice President, that’s the person that you’re really going to have to watch.” He says. 

“I won’t choose anyone I can’t manage.” She says. 

And the implication is clear -  _ Not like you did.  _

As she turns to leave, he thinks his days of managing her are far from over. 

“Why don’t you stay a bit longer?” He asks. 

He stays in place, refusing to chase after her. His words work just as well. 

She pauses, her head tilted down in thought - perhaps convincing herself to ignore him. As if she ever could. 

“We haven’t shared a bedroom in a long time, but it’s different here, knowing you’re not just ten feet across the hall.” 

“I have a lot of work to do.” 

“There’s a whole minibar here that I haven’t even touched.” He says, “Why don’t you stay for a nightcap?” 

She turns slowly, her hands sinking into her pockets in the shape of fists. 

“It could look bad.” She says, “We’re trying to stay under the radar, isn’t that right?”

“No one will know.” 

“We’re pretending we’re estranged.” 

“Yes, Claire.  _ Pretending _ .” 

She lets out a breath. “All right, one drink.” 

He flashes her a smile, but she's already looked away. She unbuttons her coat, giving him some sense of satisfaction she's interested in staying longer than a minute.

“Vodka or whiskey?” He asks. 

“Whiskey.” 

He takes two of the small bottles from the fridge, and joins her by the table. He pulls the chair out for her, and she accepts with a brief smile. 

He sits down next to her, discreetly watching her profile as she cracks open the lid. 

“Shall we toast?” 

He holds his bottle up. “To you, Claire.” 

She hardly acknowledges the warmth in his voice before she tosses the drink back. He sips on his own, depending on his lucidity to overpower her resolve. 

She sets the bottle down hard. 

“I fed my mother poison.” 

The statement momentarily paralyzes him. He'd expected brick-walled defenses, not an open heart and whispered wounds. 

He reaches out to touch her shoulder - and God grants him mercy as she doesn't flinch.

“It was what she wanted.” 

“No one wants to die like that. Weak, tired, in pain. Begging for death.” 

“What you did was merciful.” 

“And Tom. Was that merciful?” She asks, her tone cutting, her gaze swinging sharp to his. 

“It was necessary.” 

She regards him with icy blue eyes for a moment before snatching the bottle and swallowing back the last of the whiskey. 

“Are you having regrets?” 

“No you're right-” 

“I never asked you to kill him.”

“You asked me to take care of it, and at this stage, it's the same.”

He glances away. He can't deny what she's saying, and deep in his heart, he's relieved she's just as dirty as he is now. 

“How would you have taken care of it differently?” She presses. “You wouldn't have. Maybe it would have been a gun in his mouth like Macallan, or under the wheels of a train-” 

“All right, that's enough.” 

He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. 

Her next words are softer, but no less of a blow. “It's better I did it. It's how he would have wanted if there was no other option.” 

“You'll learn to live with it.” He says, giving her elbow a soft squeeze. “Your mother and Tom.”

“There's no other choice.” 

They sit in silence for a long moment. He feels the need to reassure her, and it's almost more than he can take. Doubt has never been a factor in their relationship, least of all when this much is on the line. 

She draws in a deep breath, signaling the end of that thread of conversation. 

“Are you going to finish that?” She asks, motioning to the half-empty bottle of whiskey. 

He raises it. “To us.” 

She watches him warily as he drinks back the rest of his whiskey. Her hands curl together in her lap, fingers pushing back and forth against one another in a familiar gesture of worry. 

“I have nothing left.” She murmurs, touching her own empty glass. 

“Shall I get you another?” 

“I shouldn’t …” She says, a frown curling her brow. Doubt falls like a shadow across her face; she rushes up from the table, grabbing for her coat. “In fact, I shouldn’t still be here. I need to get back to the White House. There’s so much that needs to be done; this transition is going to take weeks-”

“Claire, wait-”

He catches her wrist, her grasp perhaps a bit too firm. Maybe it’s too late to start missing her. Too late for such a mundane, human failing. But it feels like they’re walking into a blizzard - a white-out. Nothing ahead to guide the way except their own ambition and desires. Nothing but each other.

“Francis-”

Her voice starts off rigid, quickly tumbling into a fracturing whisper as he rises from the chair and puts his arm boldly around her waist. 

“Claire, you asked me. How did we get here?” 

She glances away, her jaw going taut. 

“This is how.” He whispers, “By avoiding each other-”

“By lying.” She says, pushing out of his embrace. “You did that, Francis. Not me.” 

“It was for us.” 

“Let’s not get distracted now.” She says, “You have your job, I have mine.”

Intimacy, he thinks, is an unnecessary commodity in a wasteland, when fighting for your life should be the highest priority. They've always had their own brand of it, but it's absent even now. Subtly, it's slipped away like shadow and mist when they weren't looking.

She brushes past him, muttering, “I wish it didn't have to be this way.” 

He turns, watching her escape attempt with tepid resignation. His anger is cooled by time, his resolve tempered by it.

“It doesn't have to be.” 

She stops again. He could trap her here forever with the truth; or let her leave willingly if she would only turn and face it.

“The world will look a lot different tomorrow.” He says, “A new president, a new war … Life will go on the same for a lot of people, but not for us. We're going to remember this night for the rest of our lives.”

“A victory lap? Or a last supper?”

“You really refuse to believe this is all for the best. All I've done for you-” 

She scoffs, dampening his thoughts of reconciliation, of her skin blending into the pale sheets, of her nectar of desire sweet on his mouth. But only by a margin. 

“Look, Claire, you can believe what you want, but you really are the most powerful woman in the world now. I wanted that for you.” 

She’s as still as marble statue as he slides up behind her, his hands gingerly touching her hips. 

“Let’s stop talking about what’s been done, and start talking about what we  _ will  _ do. The future, Claire - think of it. All that we could do, accomplish. Together. History is never going to forget President Underwood - both of them. In what light we’ll be remembered is up to you now.” 

She breathes unsteadily; he can feel the tremble ripple through her body, but she’s far from fragile. That much he wouldn’t question. 

“You can stop trying to convince me.” She whispers. “You were right when you said the Presidency is what I want.” 

“Then stay.” 

Her head drops, a sigh escaping her lips. 

Pressing closer, he secures his grip around her waist. 

After months of distance, the proximity is like a splash of ice water - leaving them both shaken, and stiff with gradually fading shock. 

A long moment stretches on before she reaches down and drags his hands tighter around her waist. He tightens his embrace in response, surprised by her gesture but not questioning it. 

“I feel so …. hollow.” Her voice breaks the silence in the form of a raspy whisper. Her ribs shudder against the vice of his arm. “I miss… being touched, the company of another voice, another body. The bed feels so empty, I -”

She breaks off, pursing her lips over the pained words. 

The memory of their last fight about Tom presses against the brain like a dull knife -  _ How could you be so stupid, to fall in love?  _

How stupid she’d been. 

“Claire, I’m sorry-”

She twists out of him embrace, spinning to unleash a cutting gaze and snarled words at him, “I don’t want your pity, Francis.” 

“Then what  _ do _ you want?” 

He feels like he’s given everything; but it’s never enough. For either of them. 

She calms, standing utterly still. A hurricane to still waters in a split second. Her coldness sends a shiver through him; not fear or respect, but something hovering in between. 

Slowly she reaches up to unbutton her blouse. 

“You want me to stay?” 

He offers a clipped nod, keeping his expression neutral. Buried inside his chest, behind the shield of bone, his heart is hammering. 

She unclasps the last button, allowing the fabric to slide away from her breasts. Her hands fall to her sides, daring him to make the next move. 

He waits it out for half a minute - all his wavering self-control can take - before he crosses the brief distance between them to catch her face in his palms. He drags her into a kiss, and she doesn’t fight. Despite the lackluster motion of her mouth against his, she shrugs out of her blouse in a blatant offering. 

His fingers graze over her shoulders, down the backs of her arms.  He lingers at her elbows before stretching his fingers out to find the dip of her spine. She arches beneath the gentle pressure, undulating to and from the languorous journey of hands down the swell of her backside. He drags her against him, jostling a moan from the back of her throat. 

Tearing his mouth from hers, he kisses over the edge of her jaw to find the tempo of her pulse below the thin stretch of skin below. She opens her neck in invitation, fueling the lust pumping molten heat through his veins. He slides one hand back up her spine, and locating the fasten of her bra, unhinges the garment with a firm tug. The fabric collapses away, getting lost and forgotten between the press of their bodies. He's already reaching for naked skin, his palm swallowing her breast. 

She pulls back. Panting, eyes pressed shut, she breathes out aching, whispered desire, “I want your mouth on me.” 

_ Perfectly in sync.  _

She doesn't ask much from him; she never has. Perhaps she guessed his thoughts, or knows him just well enough. 

He leads her to the couch, and she spills across the cushions. Her gaze is measured, calculating. A challenge rests in the pale blue, a falling shadow in the widening of her pupils. She would discard these desires if she could. But sex for her is primal - a compulsion linked inseparably to both satisfaction and the darkest, most painful moments of her life. He doesn't stop to think which he's adding to, if he balances the scales, if the weight of pain will ever be lesser than her pleasure.

He can only console himself that happiness isn't her priority - she's said so herself. They both know this moment is not attached to joy in any way. 

They're drawn to one another. In his mind, their attraction is a simple fact of life, engraved on the universe before breath and life. Maybe to her he's just another bad habit - but he won't question what circumstance has provided him. 

He goes to his knees on the edge of the couch, just between her splayed knees. She bites her lip as he tugs the front of her trousers open, the tedious act stretching on too long for comfort. With the zipper open, be drags the trousers from beneath her hips and down her legs. 

Her panties are the palest pink, innocence binding up a body of broken dreams, anger, fear, ambition. Black would have suited this moment better, but expectation has long been her enemy.

He's not fool enough to think she wore them for him, just base enough to enjoy it. 

They come off easily, silk gliding along smooth, wilting legs.

He shifts down to the floor, and brings her knees around to face him. 

She turns her face into her shoulder as he nudges her knees apart, laying her vulnerable and exposed. Her belly quivers with each breath. Anticipation ripples across every inch of her, a reaction she can’t conceal the way she hides her face. 

He leans in, letting his breath spill hot down her inner thigh. His palms graze up her legs and to her hips, pinning her against the cushions as the caress of breath turns to the glide of his tongue. 

A choked sound leaps from her mouth, turning to a muffled groan behind her pursed lips when she clamps her jaw shut. 

He drags his tongue in lavish strokes against her, tasting the arousal, and nurturing her stirring pleasure. The sweet, heady taste inundates his senses, an aphrodisiac that wipes out thought of worry - of reality entirely. 

She fights the rapid, powerful pleasure for mere seconds before her twisting turns to agonized writhing. Her fingers sink into his hair, pulling his face hard against her in a harsh demand. 

He doesn’t relent for a second. He grinds his tongue against her in swift, tight strokes, pushing her toward the brink of pleasure. It must be punishing against tender flesh, her body crying out at the sudden, brutal stimulation, every bit of her quaking for relief. He thinks of the ache inside her, thinks of pulling back and letting her suffer. But she’s wet and dripping against his mouth, and her tiny whimpers and uncontrollable spasms are enough satisfaction to fill a hundred nights after this one. 

This evening is branded across his mind, every little detail down the satin fabric of the couch, the carpet biting into his knees, the faint wail of sirens cutting through downtown D.C., and the dance of shadows falling across her pale skin as night encroaches. But those things are minor compared to her arousal gushing against his tongue, her moaning, her fingers bolted around his hair. 

She is everything.

After all that’s happened, maybe it’s some sick cosmic joke they still want this so violently. And maybe she hates him right now. Maybe she’s imagining he’s someone else. Maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow feeling differently, but tonight, the next few seconds are as far as he can think. 

In these seconds, she’s coming unraveled. Splintering. Gasping. Ice melting away and spilling to liquid and heat. Their constant battle for dominance melts away, remolded into something else entirely. 

Her hips lock against his face for a few, breathless moments before the wave of pleasure comes. He can feel it vibrating within her, her body balancing on the knife’s edge of pleasure. In the next moment, it hits - fierce and rushing like a storm. 

There’s a faint reflection of the past in these few mindless seconds, the ghost of their relationship slipping in and out of focus. He can’t hold onto it. He can only imagine that there’s some scrap of love caught up in this bruising bliss. 

She cries out. Not his name, but some choked, desperate curse. 

She bucks against him, and as he laps up the rushing drops of pleasure, he wonders if she’s punishing herself with this moment of absolute abandon. Or if she will torture herself with the memories later. The thought doesn’t please him like he thought it might now that she’s shaking and vulnerable below him. 

Silence falls. In the lack of motion, in between sound, there’s a chaos he can’t quell. But he can’t move - his mouth is still against her, and she’s trembling and tender.

The fresh pleasure dies a quick and silent death, leaving her raw and aching. She twists away from his mouth, dragging in a gasping, shuddering breath. 

He falls back on his heels, bringing himself to look at her. 

_ When did they stop looking?  _

She gazes up at the ceiling, focused on slowing her breathing. Her chest rises and falls steadily, each one coming slower, calmer. The thaw dissipates; her expression ices over, back to the chill he’s come to recognize. 

She sits up, carefully smoothing her hair back from her face. Snatching her discarded panties and trousers from the floor, she rises to her feet, and walks past him. 

He rubs his knuckles across his mouth, smearing away the last bit of moisture she’d left on him. 

A low chuckle grinds from his throat, resignation and resentment wrapped up inside levity. 

“Is that all you really came here for?” 

He can feel her eyes cutting into the back of his head, but he doesn’t turn to look. 

“I made a mistake-”

“Come on, Claire.” He says, pushing himself to his feet. “How long have you been living in this city? One favor equals another.” 

“This is the bedroom, not politics.” 

“Oh, but it is. You made it politics the moment you blackmailed me into making you VP.” 

“It was the only way you would have agreed-”

“You  _ fucked  _ me, Claire. In my home state. It could have cost us the election, you know. The least you could do is let me fuck you.” 

“Jesus Christ-” She begins, her mouth curling in disgust. 

“Oh, no, don’t sound so offended. What did you expect when you started undressing?” 

She turns away, toying with the fabric balled up in her arms. She doesn’t make an attempt to dress; she’s clothed only in the shadows, the toned lines of her back and ass turning his simmering desire to frustrated, pulsating need. 

He wants to take her by the hair, throw her down. The thought is hot, viral. He despises it the moment it springs, but he can’t stem the tide of anger. 

She drops her clothes suddenly, bringing his thoughts to a halt. 

Turning to face him, she lifts her chin defiantly and pins him with a frosty gaze. 

“I expect it to be hard.” 

He meets her gaze in silence for a long moment. He’s not surprised by her request. He would expect and want nothing less. 

“Can you manage that?” She asks. 

“I think you know I can.” 

She tilts her head in a beckon. 

As he approaches, she goes to the table, and braces her hands around the edge. Her hips arch back, asking him to take her. 

Stepping up behind her, he slides his belt buckle open. She keeps her head down, not looking back as he drags his cock free. 

He lays a hand on her back, and this time, she flinches as he’s grown to anticipate. She breathes low and shallow as he follows the curve of her spine all the way up to her nape, where he delves his fingers into her hair. Curling his hand into a fist, he tugs her head back. She bites back a moan as he crowds against her, pushing his cock between her thighs. He rubs against her, finding her still slick and ready to the nudging of his erection. With a few more strokes, he pushes into her in a slow, aching thrust. Her body yields to him, quivering and arching, but taking him nonetheless. 

“Oh-” Her moan breaks off into a strangled grunt. 

Her knuckles blanch white around the edge of the table, bracing herself for what’s next. 

He gives her a few more shallow, priming thrusts before shifting into a quicker, harder pace that seats his cock to the hilt inside her every time. 

They’re both tight-lipped and reticent, leaving nothing but the silence and the dissolute smack of flesh to fill the air. He longs for the whimpering and writhing he’d plied from her with his mouth, but whatever disappointment rises, it’s quickly destroyed by the pleasure rising swift and potent through his belly and chest. Her body is tight and warm and wet around him, pushing him to the edge of pleasure with no regard for the doubt and betrayal crowding outside the four walls of this hotel room. 

If he hadn’t been so reckless, so frustrated by her, he might have told himself to slow down, savor the moment. But there is no savoring a moment that’s already turned bitter and ashen in your mouth. 

There’s only proving it was all worth it. 

Instead, he pushes himself harder. His hips strike against her backside, throwing her against the table with every blow, forcing a cry from her lips. 

She goes down to her elbows, lying stiff and trapped beneath him as he carves out thrust after desperate, aching thrust. She doesn’t fight. She braces herself, her forehead against the smooth wood of the table, her mouth trapping wounded moans. 

Leaning over her, he presses his mouth to her bare shoulder - his final attempt at infusing this encounter with some semblance of intimacy. Trying to convince himself they’re more than animals, more than instincts. 

But she opens her mouth only to plead. “Harder.” 

The request filters through his brain, her low, raspy voice echoing down every inch of his body. Fire stirs within him, blazing and raging against her cold detachment.

She lifts her head, casting a sharp gaze over her shoulder at him. 

He realizes he’s stopped moving. 

“Francis.” She says, her expression strained with impatience. “ _ Harder _ .” 

Untangling his fingers from her hair, he takes her by the back of the neck. 

Her cheek presses into the table, and her eyes squeeze shut. As he resumes thrusting, she releases a shaky gasp before clamping her lips shut over the bubbling cries of pleasure. 

He fucks harder into her, wanting to break her, but she’s like marble, unresponsive and cold. He sends himself tumbling over the edge, into the bright, blinding flare of virulent pleasure that lasts for an infinitesimal collection of moments before fading away into nothing. He grunts and trembles as his release fills her, a few degrading seconds of ownership before the inelegance of the feeling becomes painfully apparent. 

He steps back, unceremoniously disconnecting their bodies. 

A thin line of come trickles down her inner thigh. 

Wincing, she rises from the table. He can see the splashes of pink and red on her skin, and a few faint bruises where his hands had brusquely claimed her. 

“Where is the bathroom?” She asks. 

“Through the bedroom, left hand side.” 

She brushes past him, her gait slow and unsteady. After she disappears into the bedroom, he hears the bathroom door shut and the faucet turn on. 

He’s left alone, his skin echoing with the impression of her body, still mildly tingling with pleasure he can’t relish. 

Pulling out one of the chairs, he sinks down with a weary sigh. 

He should be more concerned about the pardon. He probably will be in another hour when she’s gone from the hotel room and the smog of desire has cleared. By tomorrow, this exchange could mean nothing. By tomorrow, the world will have shifted. 

There’s meager seconds to do or say something meaningful with the time you have. And this is what they’ve chosen. He can only imagine she’s staring herself down on the bathroom mirror just now, regretful as he is. 

It seems an eternity passes before she comes out of the bathroom. She’s cleaned up, brushed her hair, put herself back together. 

She dresses in front of him, ignoring the way his gaze lingers on her quickly disappeared skin. 

“The world is burning.” He says, softly. 

She stops, her fingers frozen around the buttons of her shirt. “What?” 

“Everything.” He says, “It’s dying, Claire. And we have one life to accomplish something before it’s all over.” 

“We are accomplishing something.” 

“Together, or no?” 

She hesitates for a split second, but it’s just long enough. 

She lifts her chin. “Together.” 

He nods. 

She finishes dressing, and throws her coat over her shoulders. 

“I have to go. The press conference is happening in an hour.” 

“I shouldn’t have kept you so long.” 

“You didn’t keep me. I stayed.” 

He smiles faintly at the distinction. It’s always there, always will be. 

He rises from the chair, and follows her to the door. He can imagine the Secret Service agents on the other side of the wall, standing and waiting, attentive ears picking up what the plaster and drywall cannot conceal. There’s a whole other world outside this door. 

“How did you do it?” He asks. 

She focuses on buttoning her coat, her brow knotted in a frown. “Do what?” 

“Tom.” 

Her fingers pause, a slight tremble rippling through them, before she twists the last button into place. Clearing her throat, she turns a bland gaze at him. 

“I fed him poison.” 

Yanking the door open, she steps out into the hall to greet the security. 

“I’m ready to go.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

They usher her away without so much as a farewell. 

He shuts the door, his hand lingering on the knob. The hotel room feels larger, emptier without her. Without the haze of her presence, reality seeps in through the cracks, under the door, through the window. 

He imagines Tom, dead on Mark Usher’s floor. 

_ Fucking schmuck. _

He never knew what hit him. 

 

~the end~ 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr!](http://clairehales.tumblr.com//)!


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